V(DHR) - Day
by precocious lust
Summary: Weddings were always intended to make singletons feel depressed, disastrous, desperate and...desirous.


V(DHR)- Day

I had stumbled on two huge conclusions throughout the course of the night (disaster might have been a more apt label for what I was experiencing).

ONE: weddings, despite the amount of money thrown into them and contrary to their husky promises followed by their detestable fluttering eyelashes, were depressing.

TWO: I was at the stage of intoxication that made me become maudlin.

Soon tears would be encroaching on my peripheral vision and end up leaving mascara streaks on the bridesmaid dress Luna must have forked out a fortune for. Oh, and I was also trying to convince myself that Draco Malfoy waltzing around looking like _l'homme de mes r_ _êves,_ was a insignificant development. In actual fact it was the only reason left as to why a sloppy soup of lumpy tears weren't already streaming down my face. But obviously that wasn't important. He was such a non-entity that I barely noticed my heart, attempting to desert the sinking ship by lurching out of my chest, whenever he sent me a soft-edged smirk. Pity that those smirks conveyed the impression of 'you've drunk too much you silly, crazy cat lady', rather than 'let me undress and ravish you, you sexy vixen'. However, of course, this meant little to me.

'Granger, how lovely,' he drawled as he approached. I had decided against embarrassing myself–well anymore than I had already–, so had tethered myself to a chair to avoid falling and flashing everyone my knickers. 'Everyone appreciates how you're not ruining Blaise and Luna's night by refraining from chucking up, I can assure you.'

Although completely fucked, I was still Hermione Granger and from the evidence of ruffled hair, open collar and the trouble his eyes were having focusing on my face, I could tell he wasn't as close to sober as he would've liked.

'Shhh,' I pouted, thrusting my finger onto his lips. How soft. 'Luna and Blaise don't want you to ruin it either by opening your big, fat gob. Or me either, as it spoils the view.'

'Spoils the view? Why Granger has been on the bottle tonight if she's stating the obvious: me being attractive, that is.'

I giggled, as he removed my fingers– only after sucking them lightly in an action I almost missed. 'No Astoria then Malfoy?'

Subtlety was wasted on drunk Hermione. As was it on him too it appeared, as my fingers remained cocooned in his enormous palm.

He analysed me studiously– playfulness abandoned. 'No. We parted ways.'

'Oopsie daisy.'

'Now Granger this is why you should read normal things– magazines and suchlike– instead of 'Hogwarts: A History' for the 53rd time. It means we avoid embarrassing _faux pas_ like these, since you'll be perfectly informed about my latest triumphs and…'

'Tragedies?' I offered– the most useful I had been the whole night. His face remained stoic, but he nodded briskly.

I pondered how many of these events we'd both attended in the past year. Astoria had always been trailing off his arm, yet I wondered how the break-up suited him more than the relationship. Maybe it was just my own desperateness tainting my judgement.

'How about the Weasel?' I flinched at his questioning. 'I heard Lavender's satisfying his needs exceptionally. I take it you didn't.'

'More like my needs weren't…' I mumbled reaching for my glass. Confusion waded in amongst the hurt, as I found myself stretching further for it. It took me a second to realise this was because Malfoy was holding it out of my reach.

With a grin, he sipped it lazily. 'Makes sense since I wouldn't expect Wanker Weasel to find his own nose, let alone a clit.'

I reddened at his crude prose, then–I blame the champagne– I snorted. It wasn't as if Ron was awful, it was just that sometimes I had given in to temptation and uttered a few prayers to God on the topic of his performance. It was hardly something I was proud to admit, even a couple of months on.

'Like you could do any better Malfoy,' I realised sloppily that my hand had somehow ended up on his thigh and was pushing forward unbeknownst to my rationality. Again, blame the champagne. 'How could _you_ find it? I mean, your head is so far up your own arse that I doubt you can even see my face right now.'

'Call me Draco and I'll be perfectly happy to... demonstrate.'

The world suspended for an instant, as his legs tensed in preparation for the slap of rejection. I marvelled at how the Draco Malfoy I had known in school would have never made the mistake of being at someone's mercy (unless that someone was Voldermort, but I deemed that an exception). I could see his mind racing to tackle all the consequences, spreading, leaking out of their niche, to cover the fatal cracks in his formula. I relished the reckless breach of control.

Silence–excluding the 80s 'pop classics'– stretched on for miles between us. I figured I should probably put him out of his misery (and mine). 'Draco.'

The smirk (and the sex) I was rewarded with was worth that little word. 'I love you' had nothing on using your childhood nemesis' first name and the jerky manner of my gait for days after and the ring on my finger two years later, testified to that. It quickly became my favourite word–even softening my stance towards weddings and yes, even weddings cheesily placed on Valentine's Day.


End file.
